


The Nearness Of You

by malamyszk



Category: ONEUS (Band), ONEWE (Band)
Genre: Dongju Is Into That, Enemies to Blowjobs, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, Inspired by The Aesthetic of the Great Gatsby, M/M, Parties, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Sexy Cat And Mouse, So Much Dancing It's Like Pride and Prejudice Up In Here, Socialites - Freeform, The Art of Seduction, Youngjo is a 1920s Gigalo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29808348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malamyszk/pseuds/malamyszk
Summary: "For the past month, all anyone could whisper about was one Kim Youngjo, a young man who had bought one of the most expensive flats downtown and had already earned himself a reputation as a bit of a whore."Or: Dongju is a rich socialite who becomes fascinated by the new gentleman who has a reputation for seducing older women.
Relationships: Kim Youngjo | Ravn/Son Dongju | Xion, Kim Youngjo | Ravn/Yeo Hwanwoong
Comments: 3
Kudos: 53





	The Nearness Of You

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by those green outfits they wore on The Show. You know the ones.

Dongju is used to the whispering that happens at parties. _We do not gossip_ , his mother constantly told him while he was still in school, _but we are permitted a little whisper._ Comments on dresses, designs that were either too risque or too passe or just too _too_. Speculations on romances and rivalries, and murmurings about _someone_ who was seen coming out of _somewhere_ with someone _else’s_ wife. Dongju’s family parties were loud, and not just because he took to standing by the band. 

He’s used to whispers, but he isn’t used to the whispers being so focused. For the past month, all anyone could whisper about was one Kim Youngjo, a young man who had bought one of the most expensive flats downtown and had already earned himself a reputation as a bit of a whore. 

_I heard that has a new partner every night. Sometimes multiple._

_I heard that goes to Mrs. Park’s house to help her with her hysterical episodes. Using his tongue._

_I heard that he seduced an old woman into signing away her fortune._

And on and on it went, endless speculations about the nouveau riche gentleman and his apparently talented mouth. 

Dongju doesn’t normally fall into the trap of the rumor mill, too uncaring of other people’s pathetic lives to put much stock in what others are saying about them, but he’s fascinated by Youngjo. He somehow manages to get invitations to everyone’s parties, and he comes with a new person on his arm, male or female. There has only been one repeat, a shorter gentleman whose face is all sharp angles and coy smiles. Youngjo seems polite enough, quietly nodding his acknowledgement at introductions and sipping the champagne from his coupe so slowly that it looks like his glass is always full. He never rejects anyone for a dance, and he moves with a grace across the floor that is only rivaled by his shorter friend.

And he is handsome. Dongju cannot deny that the fullness of his mouth and the hazy droop of his eyes draws Dongju’s attention as much as the salacious rumors.

It is at one of his parents' weekend parties, a regular occurrence that is far too extravagant for an occasion that happens so often, that Dongju decides to approach him. He’s had two glasses of champagne and the bubbles have gotten to his head, loosening him up and giving him a burst of confidence that he doesn’t normally have around strangers. Youngjo is leaning against the wall near one of the floor to ceiling windows, looking out over the party like a tiger debating it’s kill. Dongju slides next to him, carelessly leaning against the glass. Youngjo glances at him, a quick nod of his head acknowledging Dongju’s existence, but he doesn’t say anything. Which is unusual; as one of the heirs to his parents fortune, most trip over themselves at the chance to speak with him. Dongju isn’t used to being ignored, and it makes the alcohol coating his tongue turn sharp and acidic.

“Hello,” he says, breaking the silence. Youngjo glances at him again. His expression is unchanged, if anything he looks _bored_ , and the sour taste in Dongju’s mouth thickens.

“Hello,” Youngjo says. His voice is higher than Dongju expects, a rolling smooth tone with a slight rasp at the edges. Dongju likes it, likes it more than the deeper timbre that Dongju had imagined for him. 

“I’m Dongju.”

“I know,” Youngjo says. “One of the twins.”

“Yes.”

“I imagine you know who I am,” Youngjo murmurs. “Or is going through the motions of introductions required here?”

Dongju feels the tips of his ears get hot. “I _do_ know who you are,” Dongju says after a moment. Youngjo is quick. He likes it. “Kim Youngjo. You bought the flat on High Street.”

“I did,” Youngjo acknowledges, amusement coloring his words. He takes a sip of his champagne, eyebrows raising as if to ask if Dongju has anything else to say. The flush moves from Dongju’s ears to his cheeks; this is uncharted territory for him. He’s not used to having to fight for people’s attention. He isn’t used to having to actually amuse people in order to get them to keep talking to him. He's never had to worry about whether or not he's actually interesting, just as himself.

“Is it true that you seduced old women into giving you their fortunes?” Dongju asks. Youngjo doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cough into his cup. He finishes his drink, and when he runs his tongue over his lips to catch the stray droplets, Dongju finds himself unable to look away.

“And if it is?” Youngjo asks, finally giving Dongju his full attention. His eyes are dark, but there’s something harsh in his gaze that makes Dongju feel like he’s being scolded. His mind suddenly goes blank, words hard to come by, and he stammers over an answer. Youngjo clicks his tongue.

“What is it you’ve done to earn your fortune, Son Dongju?” he asks, then continues before Dongju has a chance to answer. “Oh, my apologies. You haven’t. Excuse me.”

Youngjo walks away with the air of someone who knows he is the most important person in the room, and as soon as he glances at the group of women lingering by the punch bowl he has a partner on his arm. He spins her around the room, not once sparing Dongju a glance. And Dongju can’t stop watching him.

***

Youngjo never asks him to dance. He dances with everyone it seems like, including Dongmyeong, but not once does he approach Dongju. He doesn’t even speak to him unless it’s to greet him, and that is only out of necessity. Dongju doesn’t understand it. Yes, his question was a little crass, but wasn’t it better to be asked upfront what everyone else whispered behind the back? Why did Youngjo give gossipers more attention than him?

“He’s so arrogant,” Dongju mutters into his glass as Youngjo laughs across the room. Whatever is coming out of the young woman’s mouth surely isn’t that funny, but Youngjo laughs so freely, head tilted back like he’s never been more delighted. 

“Who?” Dongmyeong asks. “Is the champagne bad? You’ve got this look on your face.”

“It’s just my face,” Dongju mumbles, still glaring at Youngjo. He has his hand delicately wrapped around the woman’s waist, right at the dip in her back, so natural. Dongju glares so hard he’s surprised that Youngjo can’t feel it, can’t feel the pinprick of his stare burning along his skin. Dongmyeong follows his gaze and makes a surprised sound.

“Youngjo? He’s not arrogant.”

Dongju snaps his attention to his brother. Dongmyeong is wearing a crushed velvet suit in a deep emerald green. It makes his skin glow and highlights the auburn streaks in his hair. He’s wearing makeup, just a touch, bringing out the roundness of his eyes and highlighting his lips. Dongju is always afraid to get too dressed up for parties, afraid that with his long blond hair and shimmer along his brows that he will become the main subject of everyone’s whispers. He is not as secure in himself as his brother.

“You’re on a first name basis with him?” 

Dongmyeong shrugs, sipping at his own drink, a deep red wine. “We’ve danced a couple of times. Want to trade drinks?”

“No.” Dongju looks back at Youngjo, who is now leading the young woman across the floor as the band prepares another song. He debates the next thing he’s going to say, rolling the words around in his mouth. He tells Dongmyeong practically everything, trusts his brother more than anyone in the world, but there are some things about himself he has a hard time disclosing. “He won’t dance with me.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

Dongmyeong scoffs and nudges his side so hard that Dongju’s drink sloshes over the side and drips down his hand. He groans and reaches over, threatening to wipe it off on Dongmyeong’s jacket, which prompts his brother to squeak and run off. The commotion draws some stares, but not enough to be worrisome. Dongju doesn’t miss how Youngjo’s eyes flit over to him, if only for a moment. 

Youngjo dances with eight women and four men that evening, and not once does he even look in Dongju’s general direction. Dongju doesn’t ask for a dance despite Dongmyeong’s nagging, but every so often his shoulders bump with Youngjo’s as they move across the floor with their respective partners. 

There are certain things that Dongju notices, like the way Youngjo always keeps a more-than-polite distance between himself and single females, but is unafraid to get close to older women or even men that he dances with. He notices that Youngjo’s laugh changes, that when he laughs, really laughs like when he's around his short friend, his eyes crinkle in the corners and he bounces in place, like he may fall over from how much joy he is experiencing. He notices the ever-present polite smile that almost never morphs into something genuine regardless of who he dances with, and he wonders why Youngjo bothers coming out to these parties if he doesn’t really enjoy them.

Dongju doesn’t get a chance to ask. Youngjo hails a cab for one of his dance partners before the night is over and he doesn’t return. The next day there is a small box in the paper dedicated to Youngjo, a gossip story about how Mrs. Park Chohee had received a nude painting from Youngjo as a gift for her fiftieth birthday. The article doesn’t specify if the nude is of her or of him, doesn’t specify who painted it, and with no comments from either person Dongju isn’t sure the painting even exists. Still, he cuts the small square from the newspaper and folds it into a tiny paper star that he keeps in his breast pocket. 

***

Kim Geonhak’s family home is large, larger than Dongju’s, larger than anyone’s estate that Dongju has had the privilege of visiting. Everything about it is meant to dazzle, from high ceilings that one has to tilt up to look at, to the crystal chandeliers, to the imported rugs, to the foreign delicacies on platters that look simultaneously enticing and terrifying. Despite having been to Geonhak’s birthday parties every year since he was a child, and despite having a sort of friendship with the man that mostly relies on a teasing banter that Dongju can’t get away with with anyone else, he has only ever seen six rooms in Geonhak’s house. In reality, he should only be acquainted with two - the main room and the dining room, but over the past few years Dongju has made it his personal mission to sneak off and explore another room of the house. Dongju isn’t interested in architecture, isn’t even interested in design, but he is interested in accessories. He loves things that sparkle, loves tchotchkes, loves to see the ornate things that people have collected. 

It is during his meandering that Dongju bumps into Youngjo. Well, he doesn’t really _bump into_ him, and Youngjo isn’t alone. Youngjo is with the short male partner that accompanies him sometimes. His short male partner who is kissing him, clutching his hair and kissing him with a desperation that almost feels forced. Youngjo kisses back, fingers clutching at the man’s hips with an intimacy that Dongju has never witnessed from him on the dance floor. Their breathing is heavy and wet, and the sounds of their mouths coming together, of their tongues dragging along lips and chins, completely envelopes Dongju. He can’t look away, can’t even move when the shorter man undoes the buttons of Youngjo’s slacks and sinks to his knees.

The man manages to pull Youngjo out of his slacks with a surprising ease, small fist working his hard length with a familiarity that Dongju is strangely envious of. He watches the way Youngjo’s head tilts back against the wall, exposing the long expanse of his neck. His teeth drag along his plush bottom lip, and Dongju darts his tongue out against his own lips, hit with a sudden molten heat and a desire to be in the shorter man’s place. He desires nothing more than to make Youngjo look like this, unkempt and blissed out. He wants to drag those sinful noises from his lips, sharp gasps and bitten-off groans.

When the man slides his mouth down Youngjo’s cock, Dongju must make a sound because Youngjo looks at him. His eyes are dark, mouth a deep cherry red and dropped open. He doesn’t look surprised for a moment, as if he had been expecting to be seen, but then his eyes widen. Still Dongju can’t look away. He’s sure that his face is red, can feel a burning heat along his skin, a tingling irritation all the way down to his fingertips. He’s also painfully aware that he’s starting to get hard, and his suit jacket isn’t long enough to shield him from Youngjo’s curious gaze. 

The shorter man does something that makes Youngjo’s mouth drop open even more, groaning as if the sound has been punched from his lungs. He doesn’t look away from Dongju, eyes hard and focused, like they’re playing a game to see who can last the longest before breaking eye contact. Dongju thinks he has the advantage, seeing as he isn’t the one being pleasured, but then the shorter man whines, and Dongju looks down just in time to see him pull off, dragging the flat of his tongue over the head of Youngjo’s cock. Youngjo grips the man’s hair and forces him back down, and Dongju’s fingers unconsciously rise to his lips, the tips of two of them slipping against his tongue as if that will give him some semblance of the pleasure he’s witnessing. 

He watches, fingers in his mouth and drool down his chin, as Youngjo thrusts into the man’s mouth. His own hips rock in time with Youngjo’s, seeking a friction that he cannot have, and he feels like he will go wild with desperation the longer he watches. Time seems infinite, stretching and pulsing until he is aware of nothing but the wet sounds and low grunts and high-pitched whines and his own ragged breathing. 

He knows when Youngjo comes from the way that he grips the man’s head with both hands, hips stuttering and then stilling against his mouth. Youngjo is quiet when he comes; his teeth dig into his bottom lip with a ferocity that makes the skin bloom white and then deep purple, as if he’s holding back something dangerous. The shorter man pulls off, and when he sticks out his tongue, thick white dripping, Youngjo tugs him up by his chin and kisses him. It’s filthy. It’s the most erotic thing that Dongju has ever seen. It makes him feel wild, unhinged, like a feral animal, and he has to rush down the hallway and into the first bathroom he finds. He doesn’t even get his pants down all the way before he’s tugging at his cock with a desperation that borders on painful. He’s already wet, so wet, and he comes in what feels like seconds, staining his silk shirt. He cleans himself off with the fancy embroidered towel, dumping it in the wastebasket before he buttons his jacket over the stain on his shirt and slips out of the bathroom. 

He leaves Geonhak’s party before the presents are opened, but he’s sure that nobody notices his absence.

***

His mother glares at his invite list with an intensity that is partially due to her refusal to wear reading glasses and partially due to judgement. She has never approved of his invite lists, probably regrets giving Dongju and Dongmyeong the option of picking a few personal guests to invite to their birthday parties.

“You’re inviting Kim Youngjo,” she says, and the way she says his name leaves no doubt as to what she thinks about him. Dongju knows his mother does not trust people with ‘new money’, knows that she trusts them even less when they are followed by a scandal. “I didn’t know you were close.”

“We’re not,” Dongju says. He hasn’t spoken to Youngjo since the night at Geonhak’s party, has barely even exchanged glances with him across dance floors and hallways. He bumped into him once while he was shopping for jewelry, and he’d flushed so red that the gentleman behind the counter had been worried he’d suddenly taken ill. Youngjo had ignored his stammering and picked up a small, sleek black case before walking out without so much as a tip of his hat. 

“So you’re sending him a personal invitation because…?”

She’s fishing, he knows she is, but he shrugs. “Youngjo has been to everyone’s party so far. It will look strange if we don’t invite him.”

His mother glares at him for a solid five seconds—he counts— then sighs and passes his list back to him.

“You’re right,” she huffs. She taps her long, lacquered nails against the side of her temple. “No point in creating gossip when there isn’t any.”

“Exactly,” Dongju agrees, folding his list into a small, perfect square. “I will handle my invitations.”

“You could just add them to the list,” his mother says. “It looks better that way, if they’re all the same.”

“Of course,” he agrees, but he writes them himself anyway. He wants to apologize to Geonhak for rushing out of his birthday over the summer, and he has something special planned for Kim Youngjo that their event planner cannot deliver for him.

_You are cordially invited to the twenty-first birthday celebration of Son Dongju (and Dongmyeong). Presents are unnecessary, however your presence in the garden at 9 p.m. is non-negotiable._

_xx_

***

Dongju is surprised when he sees Youngjo waiting in the garden at eight-fifty. A large part of him had expected that if he didn’t reject Dongju’s invitation outright, he wouldn’t appear for the one-on-one rendezvous that Dongju requested. Seeing Youngjo sets Dongju’s blood alight, makes him lose his balance, almost makes him lose all sense of himself.

Youngjo is wearing a suit of deep navy, with a white shirt that looks iridescent under the twinkling garden lights. When he moves, Dongju swears he can see skin underneath, the ripple of muscle and bone, and it makes him ache with a hunger that he doesn’t have the words to describe. Youngjo’s hair is not as long as it had been over the summer, but it still curls delightfully around his ears and at the nape of his neck. 

Dongju’s own suit is pink—a bold choice but one that his mother didn’t object to once the tailor had fully accessorized him with black ribbons and pearl accents. His long hair is tied back in an extravagant plait, and he knows that tomorrow the headlines will be filled with talk of his outfit, gushing of how it captures the timelessness of youth while also highlighting his broad shoulders and strong jawline. Dongju knows that he looks good, beautiful even, but he’s still nervous when he steps off of the path and into the alcove where Youngjo waits.

“I didn’t think you would come,” Dongju says by way of greeting, and Youngjo shrugs. His wine glass is still full, but when he moves it’s so graceful that the liquid barely shifts. 

“I almost didn’t,” Youngjo says. He smiles then, one of the genuine ones that reaches his eyes, and Dongju goes breathless. “But it’s not every day I get threatened to go to a party.”

“I did not threaten you,” Dongju says, and Youngjo raises his eyebrows. “I had to be a _bit_ forceful, otherwise you’d likely avoid me forever.”

Youngjo hums, his tongue sliding along his teeth, and Dongju remembers the way he had kissed that man in Geonhak’s halfway. He feels hot under his collar. 

“Why don’t you ever pursue me?” Dongju asks suddenly. Youngjo doesn’t look surprised by his question, barely looks fazed by it at all, and Dongju envies the way he’s able to maintain such an unbothered facade. Dongju often feels that he shares too much without meaning to, either by speaking out of turn or in his expressions. He wishes he could read Youngjo’s thoughts, wishes he could know the most intimate parts of him.

“I don’t like wasting my time,” Youngjo says at last. Dongju’s stomach flips, and he feels the burn of indignant anger rise up his throat. No one has ever spoken to him the way Youngjo does, and even though his ears burn with humiliation, he doesn’t want him to stop. 

“Wasting your time?” Dongju parrots. “On me?”

“On little boys who don’t know what they want,” Youngjo says, voice smooth as honey. Dongju doesn’t know what stings more, Youngjo calling him a child or the smooth way he seems to disregard Dongju’s entire existence. 

“What makes you think I don’t know what I want?” Dongju says, stepping closer. Youngjo regards him with a wariness that Dongju doesn’t like. He craves Youngjo’s attention, wants his eyes on him like they were that night months ago when his cock was being swallowed by another man. Dongju swallows suddenly, and Youngjo’s lips quirk like he knows exactly what Dongju is thinking.

“Little fawn, I have no time to teach blushing virgins who aren’t ready to handle the consequences of their actions.”

Dongju feels like he’s been slapped; his cheeks burn red with it. His spit is thick in his mouth and suddenly the fragrance of the garden is too much. It’s been a mild winter, and the camellias are so pungent that it almost makes Dongju feel nauseous. 

“I’m—” he stammers, but he isn’t sure what he wants to say anymore. He wants to defend his desires, wants to ask if Youngjo has nicknames for everyone or if he’s special. “I’m not—”

“The way you watched us,” Youngjo murmurs, “you looked like you’d never seen a man’s cock in your life.”

Dongju’s cheeks burn so hot that he’s afraid he’s going to start sweating. His hands ball into tight fists, nails digging half-moon crescents into his palms.

“Maybe I was just shocked at your level of indecency,” he snaps.

Youngjo’s eyes widen, and Dongju revels in Youngjo’s temporary moment of shock even though the man starts laughing a half second later.

“Is that all it was?” Youngjo asks. “Not because you hadn’t witnessed a blowjob before?” He steps closer, and Dongju is overpowered by a cologne that reminds him of the seaside, salt and grit and wind through his hair. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“I’m more experienced than you think,” Dongju says, even though he isn’t, and when Youngjo snorts he drops down to his knees. He looks up at Youngjo through his lashes, pleased to see the shocked expression on his face, mouth still open like Dongju had caught him mid-laugh. Dongju knows his own expression is defiant, can feel the scrunch of skin between his brows because of the way he is glaring.

“Oh,” Youngjo murmurs. He reaches out and tugs at a tendril of hair that has come loose from Dongju’s braid. Dongju shifts forward, hands wrapping around Youngjo’s calves. This close to him, his mouth level with Youngjo’s crotch, Youngjo’s legs almost pressed along his torso, Dongju can feel the heat of him. Beneath the crisp cool fabric of Youngjo’s slacks, Dongju can feel the hard planes of muscle, the delicate bones of thin ankles. He wants to touch more, wants to reach under the pant legs and keep going up and up, mapping out Youngjo’s skin with his fingertips.

“Oh,” Youngjo says again, voice soft, like a sigh. Dongju wonders if that’s what he sounds like when he’s pleasuring himself, breathy moans and soft, so soft. Youngjo’s eyes are dark; deep, black pools that reflect the twinkling lights from the garden lanterns. Even with long shadows upon his face, Youngjo is beautiful. Dongju shifts on his knees, the moisture of the grass seeping through his slacks. They’re incredibly expensive, not meant for grass stains and mud, but he has something to prove. 

Youngjo traces his thumb along Dongju’s jaw, still so gentle. “Open your mouth?”

Dongju lets his mouth drop open without hesitation. It makes him feel surprisingly vulnerable; his cheeks start to heat and he can taste the scent of freshly mown grass and camellias in bloom. Spit wells under his tongue alarmingly fast, and he’s terrified that he will start drooling, wonders if he’s allowed to close his mouth to swallow. Youngjo doesn’t say anything, just watches him with his impossibly dark eyes. 

“Beautiful,” Youngjo murmurs, and a tingle of sharp heat rushes down Dongju’s spine. His skin suddenly feels tight, scalp itching with a desire to be pet. He shifts again, mouth still open. His breathing sounds loud in his own ears, ragged and gasping. 

Youngjo grins, slow and lovely, and dips two of his long fingers into his wine glass, heedless of the way the burgundy liquid drips off of his fingertips and onto Dongju’s suit when he lifts them out. He presses his fingertips against Dongju’s bottom lip, and Dongju is mortified when he feels some of his spit drip down the corners of his mouth. Youngjo hums, still smiling, as he shoves his two fingers into Dongju’s mouth.

Youngjo’s fingers are rough against his tongue. They taste like red wine and sweat and charcoal pencils and something else, something earthy, like Youngjo had been picking flowers before Dongju had come upon him. He presses against Dongju’s tongue, forcing him to stick it out, forcing more drool out of his mouth.

“You are well trained,” Youngjo says. He chuckles, pressing his fingers a little deeper. Dongju’s breath catches and his eyes water but he refuses to move, refuses to gag. “But, one would expect that from a boy like you.”

Dongju’s cheeks burn red-hot with shame, but he doesn’t say anything when Youngjo pulls his fingers out of his mouth. He dips his thumb into his wine, this time carelessly pulling it out and dripping the liquid over both of their slacks as he traces Dongju’s lips like he’s painting with oils, smearing wine and spit to color Dongju’s mouth a blushing pink. 

“So good,” Youngjo continues to praise, and Dongju can’t resist wrapping his lips around Youngjo’s thumb and sucking, tongue working the pad of his finger as if promising a pleasure that they both want even though Dongju has no actual experience. Youngjo doesn’t tell him to stop, doesn’t pull away until Dongju opens his mouth again and lets his thumb fall out. Youngjo stares at him, lips quirked up, and then wipes his thumb along Dongju’s cheek.

“You know, darling,” he says, straightening his jacket. “You’re almost making this too easy. I’ll see you inside? I believe you are due to make a toast.”

Youngjo steps around him like he’s nothing, and Dongju is frozen in place, humiliated and also shamefully hard. He balls his fists against his crotch and presses, breathing in deep through his nose and squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden sting he feels. He doesn’t have the time to get himself fully together, however, because he can hear his mother’s voice telling the band to pause their playing because her sons have an announcement to make. Dongju dashes inside, only just managing to adjust himself in his pants so it doesn’t look like he’s been doing anything indecent. Dongmyeong’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline at the sight of him, and his mother’s glare is so withering Dongju is surprised he still has limbs that work to accept the champagne glass passed to him.

“Be careful in the garden, everyone” Dongju says, smile bright. Dongju perfected his 'performance smile' when he was five, can pull it out without even thinking. “It may not be icy, but one wrong step and you’ll end up looking like me.”

There is a chorus of laughter, and Dongju catches Youngjo’s eyes. He doesn’t laugh, but he watches Dongju with an open hunger that almost makes his mask slip. He smiles wider and laughs, matching the tone of the crowd. 

“My clumsiness aside, thank you so much for joining us this evening. It’s not every day a young man turns twenty-one in the company of such respected friends.”

Youngjo snorts into glass and the woman standing next to him gives him a disgusted look. Dongju counts that as a point for himself, finally getting Youngjo to slip—even though his slip is nowhere near as humiliating as Dongju’s. Still, a win is a win, and his smile shifts into something a little more genuine.

“Truly, thank you so much.” He turns to his brother, lifting his glass in a gesture of a mic pass, and Dongmyeong gives his toast as well, just as funny, just as fake. The crowd eats it up, and when he and Dongmyeong wrap their arms so that they can drink from each other’s glasses, lightbulbs flash for photos meant for tomorrow’s paper. Dongju straightens with a laugh, but when he looks out into the crowd, he no longer sees Youngjo.

  
  


He finds him later, tucked away in a corner, one arm wrapped around Dongmeyong’s shoulders and the other in his brother’s pants. Dongju’s chest tightens and a bitter taste rises in the back of his throat. He slips out of the room, making sure the curtains shield his brother and Youngjo from prying eyes, and drinks until he can’t think anymore.

***

“I can’t believe you.”

Dongju groans and presses the cool glass of lemonade to his forehead. He has a headache that threatens to split his entire skull open, and he knows his mother is delighting in his agony because she is furious with him, and the more he suffers, the better.

“What on earth were you thinking?”

“I heard you giving the announcement and I fell,” Dongju explains. He’s repeated the same thing all morning, but it never seems to be good enough. “I didn’t want to make everyone wait.”

His mother sighs and grips his chin, pulling him towards her. Her nails dig into the fleshy part of his cheek. Her lashes are clumped together with mascara but her lipstick is flawless. Dongju thinks his mother is beautiful without the lurid red lipstick and bright blue eyeshadow, but he knows better than to comment on her appearance. He knows that she’s especially sensitive since she’s coming on the big 4-0 in the next year.

“People will wait for you, Dongju,” she says. “They will wait for what you have to say.” She releases his chin and butters a piece of toast, shoving it at him with a force that means if he doesn’t eat it she might bend him over her knee. 

“People don’t want to see you unkempt,” she continues once he grudgingly has the toast in his mouth. “They don’t want to know that you’re just like them. You’re not human. You’re above that. So you have to act like it.”

“But I am human,” he grumbles, crumbs flying out of his mouth and onto his shirt. She tuts and wipes at his mouth with her cloth napkin. 

“You’re not human in the public eye, darling,” she says, almost sounding apologetic. “And the whole point of your birthday was to show everyone what an eligible young man you’ve grown into, not parade around in muddy clothes like you’re still a child.” She purses her lips and shakes her head while Dongju miserably tries to swallow the now paste-like substance in his mouth. “Why can’t you behave more like your brother?”

Dongju keeps it to himself that his perfectly eligible brother spent last night tucked away in a corner being serviced by the very Kim Youngjo she detests so much. Just thinking about it makes his eyes sting and his stomach roll. He drops his toast and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until he sees white.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and there must be something utterly broken about his voice because his mother gently squeezes his arm.

“Well,” she says, voice uncharacteristically soft, “don’t do it again.”

***

It takes twenty minutes for Dongju to get to Youngjo’s flat. He’s freshly showered and dressed in a powder blue suit. It’s Dongmyeong’s, which means it’s a little tight on him, but the pants make it look like Dongju has more of an ass than he does. (There is also a thought in the back of his mind, a terrible thought that he doesn’t want to dwell on, that if he looks more like Dongmyeong maybe Youngjo will like him.)

Youngjo’s flat is a walk up, and Dongju can feel eyes on him, peeking from around lace curtains as he walks up the steps. Just from the ornate carvings on the cherry wood door Dongju knows the flat is expensive. He knocks, stinging his knuckles because of the chill in the air, and waits.

It isn’t Youngjo who answers, but his short friend. The man only looks surprised for a moment, and then his lips spread into this coy smile that makes Dongju’s cheeks get hot.

“Oh, the elite Son Dongju,” he purrs. “I wondered when you would stop peeping at me from around corners and come pay a visit.”

“Is Kim Youngjo in?” Dongju asks, refusing to stutter, refusing to admit that the man’s statement has gone straight to his gut, stoking a flame that he refuses to acknowledge. 

“He is. But first…” The man leans against the doorframe and holds his hand out, wrist limp. Dongju doesn’t know if he wants him to shake it or kiss it, so he does neither. The man pouts and pulls his hand back. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Yeo Hwanwoong.”

Dongju has heard his name in whispers, perhaps has seen it in the paper as well, but he hasn’t heard enough to know who Hwanwoong is or where he comes from. Dongju nods his head in acknowledgement.

“Pleased to meet you.”

Hwanwoong laughs, a laugh that uses his whole body, head tilting back and shoulders shaking and knees bending. Hwanwoong laughs like he dances, with a grace and beauty that makes Dongju wonder if it’s genuine.

“So formal considering you saw me on my knees.” Hwanwoong winks and then turns abruptly, stepping into the hallway. “Come inside. You’re letting in the chill.”

Dongju follows Hwanwoong into the flat, making sure to close the door behind him. The flat is cozy, so different from any home he has been in. The only way he knows that the person living in it is wealthy is because he knows the value of the flat itself. It is decorated with framed paintings, not classics, not to show off an impressive collection, but a mismatch of abstracts and portraits, bright colors that portray an ecstatic joy for life. The carpets are plush and warm, the furniture sparse and lived in, and there are plants everywhere Dongju looks. There are no trinkets for him to admire, no crystals or diamonds, no exotic figurines, but still Dongju finds himself enamored. In Youngjo’s parlor, with the fire crackling and a thick carpet beneath his feet, Dongju feels like he can breathe deeper than he ever has in his life.

Youngjo sits curled in a chair by the window with a book. His feet are tucked under him, and occasionally he worries his bottom lip with his top teeth. His hair is a mess of curls and his shirt is playfully unbuttoned halfway down, exposing collarbones and a pale chest. He looks beautiful, even more beautiful than he does when he dresses up, even more beautiful than when he had the glow of garden lights in his eyes.

“Who was it?” he asks absently, not looking up, and Hwanwoong laughs as he flings himself onto the small sofa. 

“Don’t be rude to our guest,” Hwanwoong says, a tease in his voice, and Youngjo’s head snaps up. His eyes widen and his fingers automatically go to button up his shirt. He scrambles to make himself presentable, to put his aristocratic mask in place, and Dongju immediately misses the sight of his skin and tender eyes. His chest aches, and he resists putting his hand over his heart to soothe the sudden, sharp pain that he feels.

“Son Dongju,” Youngjo says, standing up. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to speak with you,” Dongju says, matching Youngjo’s formal tone. “If you have the time.”

“Of course.” Youngjo gestures down another hallway. “Shall we to the conservatory?”

“It is meant to be a private conversation,” Dongju says. He doesn’t miss the quick dip of Youngjo’s eyebrows, the slight shuttering of his expression.

“I assure you it is quite private,” Youngjo murmurs. “No one will see you here.”

There is something in Youngjo’s choice of words that rubs Dongju the wrong way, makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle with an unease, but he can’t place why. He nods his acquiescence and follows Youngjo down the hallway and into the humid, glass-encased conservatory. There are small trees in bloom, creeping vines and ivy, beautiful rose bushes and the occasional potted orchid. It’s beautiful, and with so much foliage, secluded. Dongju feels his shoulders relax just a tad knowing that he is safe from prying eyes. 

“It’s lovely,” Dongju says, formalities gone, just open adoration. He clears his throat in embarrassment, but Youngjo doesn’t comment on his slip-up.

“Thank you.” Youngjo traces a finger over the delicate petals of one of the roses, a wistful look on his face. “My mother had a green thumb. I love gardens but am not especially good at gardening. Luckily Hwanwoong reminds me to take care of the plants.”

“Are you and he—”

“We’re friends,” Youngjo says. There is a finality to his voice that suggests he doesn’t want Dongju to pry further, but Dongju has never been good at holding back his thoughts.

“You looked like more than friends.”

Youngjo sighs. “Not that it is any of your business, but Hwanwoong had a fling with Geonhak. He wanted to make him jealous.” Youngjo levels him with an even stare and Dongju nods his understanding. It explains why Youngjo hadn’t been shocked to discover that they were being watched.

“Do you often help your friends anger their former lovers?”

Youngjo’s lips quirk. “Do you often wander people’s homes uninvited?” As quickly as the playful expression settles on Youngjo’s face it vanishes, mask back in place. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“You humiliated me last night,” Dongju says, which is part of the grand speech he had planned on his way over, but not the way he meant to start it. Youngjo blinks at him, then smiles, one of those smiles that he reserves for when conversation is annoying but he still has to indulge the speaker. Dongju hates that he has catalogued Youngjo’s smiles so well.

“I assure you that you did just fine all on your own.”

“Why do you hate me so much?” Dongju’s voice trembles and he attempts to clear it. “I wanted to get to know you. I’ve been trying to.”

Youngjo shrugs and places his hands in the pockets of his trousers. They are slightly too large, hanging low on his hips and pooling around his feet. Dongju can see the peek of toes beneath the fabric.

“I’m well past catering to the whims of the wealthy.”

Dongju rolls his eyes. “You _are_ the wealthy. No matter where you came from, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re one of us now.”

“Am I?” Youngjo’s smile is amused, but also a little deprecating. “Tell me, did you sneak over here?”

“I took a cab and walked down the main street just like everyone else,” Dongju says. “I only asked for privacy because I crave it sometimes, not because I’m ashamed to be seen with you.”

Youngjo’s eyes widen with surprise, but he quickly hides it by focusing his attention on another rose bush. Anger rushes up Dongju’s spine—he doesn’t often throw tantrums, hates being the stereotype of a spoiled child, but his emotions always hit hard and fast and he has a difficult time holding his tongue.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” he accuses. “Don’t have time for the whims of the wealthy when you spend plenty of time around people who only want to be near you so they can talk about you behind your back.”

“Are you so aware of people’s intentions?” Youngjo murmurs.

“Yes. Because I grew up in it.”

Youngjo sighs and glances at Dongju over his shoulder. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t need you to watch out for me, Little Fawn.”

“I have a name,” Dongju snaps, even though he loves the nickname that Youngjo has made for him. 

“I know,” Youngjo says. He turns to face Dongju fully again, but his face is still guarded, refusing to let his mask slip. “I see it in the papers.”

Dongju blinks, mind whirring at the potential implications of Youngjo’s words. “You keep up with me?”

“I read the paper.”

“Well I read the paper too,” Dongju says, taking a step closer. Youngjo doesn’t move away, but he quirks one eyebrow in question. “And I hear a lot of talk.”

“About me?”

“About your proclivities.”

“And is that why you’re here?”

“Partly.” Dongju traces over the petals of the rose Youngjo had played with earlier. It is soft to the touch, velvety smooth. “How _did_ you make your fortune?”

“I made a lot of lonely women very happy over a few steamy summers,” Youngjo says, and when Dongju looks up at him, he knows that he is telling the truth. Dongju hums and nods. He isn’t surprised by the information; what _is_ surprising is that he doesn’t mind it. It doesn’t change his view of Youngjo, doesn’t make him any less desirable in Dongju’s eyes. He wishes he knew a better way to express that he doesn’t care about Youngjo’s past, doesn’t even really care about the many people he sleeps with—if he does in fact sleep with him. There is only one thing that bothers him; the real reason that he is here. 

“May I ask you something?” he says quietly, averting his gaze. Youngjo’s laugh is a little startled, but still soft. 

“Should I be worried?” he attempts to joke. “You never ask permission to open your mouth.”

The words sting, sting even more so because Dongju is feeling entirely too vulnerable at the moment. He has a desire to end the conversation, lift his nose and march out of the house and forcibly forget about Kim Youngjo forever until his heartache mends itself. But he is weak.

“Why…” he licks his lips. Swallows. “Why did you not have a problem sleeping with my brother?”

Youngjo is quiet for a long time, and when Dongju looks at him his eyes are sad, like a kicked puppy. He looks guilty, apologetic, and that hurts even more than if Youngjo simply told him that he wasn’t interested.

“I didn’t sleep with him.”

Dongju scoffs. He crosses his arms over his chest as if that can keep the pieces of his heart intact. “I saw you.”

“You didn’t see the whole thing.”

“Well excuse me if I didn’t stay for the finale,” Dongju snaps. Youngjo stares at him, his gaze open and questioning, and Dongju feels like he’s being ripped open, innards being laid out as if on a butcher’s block for inspection. His eyes suddenly sting and he looks away, unfocusing his gaze on the leaves of the small trees.

“What is the real question you want to ask, Little Fawn?” Youngjo’s voice is so gentle, so soothing, that if Dongju wasn’t better trained he might start crying. As it is, he only has to deal with a deep pressure behind his nose and a tightness in his voice.

“Why is he good enough for you and I am not?” 

Saying the words aloud is like ripping his heart out of his chest and holding it bloody and raw in his outstretched palm. It is a fear and a guilt he has carried with him his whole life, a question he has been unable to ever voice for fear of hearing the answer. He loves his brother more than any person or anything in the world, but he envies him as well. He envies his easy charm and his sunny disposition. He envies the way Dongmyeong glides through life, and he envies the way that everyone adores him. Dongju is not blind, he knows his brother is the favored twin in all aspects of their lives. 

He feels a warm hand on his shoulder and it makes him flinch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You are good enough,” Youngjo murmurs, and the sting in Dongju’s eyes gets worse. “And not just for me. You don’t have to wear your brother’s suits or—”

Dongju pulls away and whirls on Youngjo. His cheeks burn with anger and embarrassment, and when he speaks his words are sharp, edged to hurt. “I do not need you to psychoanalyze me.”

Youngjo nods, bows his head slightly. “My apologies.”

Dongju laughs, ragged and bitter. “Do you delight in tormenting me? Is that your game?”

“I enjoy playing with you,” Youngjo says, still so gentle, like he’s attempting to soothe a wild animal. “I do not delight in your torment.”

Dongju holds himself even tighter. He can’t bear to look at Youngjo, can hardly bear the feeling of the man’s eyes on him. He should leave, pick up the pieces of himself and go back home before Youngjo has even more ammunition, but he can’t get himself to move. His feet feel like they’re glued to the ground and his entire body feels heavy and sluggish. 

“I did not seek out your brother for pleasure. He was asking me for advice.” Youngjo says after a moment. Dongju wants to snap at him, wants to yell, but he is too trained in etiquette, habit overshadowing his emotions.

“Pardon me if I don’t believe the sorry excuse that you were advising my brother on how best to pleasure you.”

“Not me,” Youngjo says. “Someone else.”

That gives Dongju pause, makes him finally raise his eyes from the ground. Youngjo’s gaze is open, no longer cold and disinterested. Dongju bites his lip, brows furrowing as he tries to decipher Youngjo’s meaning.

“Excuse me?”

Youngjo shrugs and his lips rise up in a small, shy smile. “Your brother has an admirer. Someone eolder. He wanted to take it a step further but didn’t want to appear in experienced—”

“No,” Dongju says, shaking his head. “Myeong is—no. Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“That can’t be true,” Dongju snaps. “He would have told me.”

“Like you told him about coming here?” Youngjo muses, and Dongju’s cheeks flush at being called out. “Sometimes secrets are harder to share when there are feelings at stake.”

“I don’t have feelings for you,” Dongju says, but his voice is weak, and when Youngjo steps into his space, close enough that Dongju can smell his faded cologne and warm fabric and ginger, he can’t pull away.

“That’s a shame,” Youngjo murmurs. “Because I have feelings for you.”

Dongju’s stomach rises and falls, like coming down off the high point on a swing. His chest aches again, and this time he can’t resist pressing his hand against where it is thumping wildly in his chest. He doesn’t care if he looks like a cliche. 

“You lie,” he says, but Youngjo chuckles and shakes his head. He cups Dongju’s cheek, calloused thumb running carefully over his skin, and just that is enough to have Dongju trembling.

“You can be so cold, Dongju,” Youngjo says. “You have a reputation, too, you know. As an ice prince.”

Dongju does know. It comes with the territory of his other half being much more suited to public interactions.

“You pursued me so openly, like a child who desperately wants a new toy.” Dongju glares and Youngjo chuckles, this beautiful delicate thing that Dongju wants to hear over and over again. “I did not want to be a play thing for you.”

“I would never—” but the words get lodged in his throat. He leans into Youngjo’s touch, nuzzling against his palm. He looks up at Youngjo through his lashes. “What if I wanted to be a play thing for you?”

Youngjo’s breath hitches and his eyes suddenly get dark. It is a carnal response that makes Dongju feel simultaneously proud and terrified. All of his nerve endings feel alive, insides quivering with an energy that he can’t describe nor control. 

“You—” Youngjo starts, then gives a breathless chuckle and shakes his head. “You really have no idea.”

“About what?”

“How enticing you are,” Youngjo says. His thumb trails down, presses against the corner of Dongju’s lips. “May I kiss you?”

Dongju swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “Please.”

Dongju has never been kissed. Well, there was one time when he was eight, and a younger girl who was visiting sat on him and kissed him on the lips with such ferocity that Dongju’s lip had split. He had cried endlessly, even after the bleeding had stopped, and had never allowed anyone close to him again.

He has never been kissed, and yet when Youngjo leans into him Dongju’s head tilts just so, like his body knows exactly what it needs to do. 

Youngjo’s lips are soft. They’re big and plush and coax Dongju’s own chapped lips open so that he can swipe his tongue along his teeth. Youngjo tastes like ginger and spice, tastes like the remnants of a clove cigarette, and Dongju can’t get enough. He’s hit with a sudden, burning desire, molten liquid in his gut rushing to all of his limbs in a wave of white-hot pleasure that he doesn’t know how to contain. He moans, a tight sound caught in his throat, as he tangles his fingers in Youngjo’s hair in an attempt to pull him ever closer. He wants Youngjo to devour him, to kiss him until there’s nothing left. 

Youngjo kisses down his jaw, his hands moving over Dongju’s back, down to his ass, gripping him and pulling him close. Every touch burns, the contact too much all at once for someone who is required to keep everyone at a distance. Dongju likes the closeness, likes the searing sensation of Youngjo’s teeth and tongue along his neck. He tangles his fingers in Youngjo’s soft curls and tugs him back to his mouth, kissing him with a desperation that can’t be contained. He cannot say that he’s dreamed of this moment because he never allowed himself the pleasure, but the sensation is beyond anything in even his wildest imagination. 

The first roll of Youngjo’s hips against his pulls a sound from him that is far too loud and embarrassing. Youngjo chuckles against his mouth and pulls Dongju even closer, grinding them together until all Dongju knows is an endless wave of pleasure. Dongju has touched himself, is in no way celibate, but nothing has ever felt like this. It is overwhelming, a constant barrage of sensation that he is unable to process. All he can do is surrender to it, attempt to match Youngjo’s kisses and grip his hair and shoulders to keep himself from flying apart.

Youngjo bends suddenly, strong hands hooking under Dongju’s thighs and lifting. Dongju squawks, legs kicking out and hands scrabbling at Youngjo’s shoulders. Youngjo laughs, hiding his face in Dongju’s chest, right above where his heart is threatening to crack his ribs. Dongju is filled with an overwhelming fondness, so much that it threatens to drown him.

“I like you like this,” Dongju whispers, because that is far easier to admit than _I think perhaps I’m falling in love with you._ Youngjo lifts his chin so that Dongju can see his face.

“Like what?”

“When you smile…” Dongju carefully traces trembling fingers along the gentle lines around Youngjo’s eyes, continues down to his pink cheeks, brushes against the slight stubble along his jaw. “Your eyes smile too, when you mean it. I like that.”

Youngjo’s expression softens, his eyes filled with so much that Dongju can’t even begin to decipher.

“I like you like this, too,” Youngjo murmurs, lips hot against the hollow of Dongju’s throat. An embarrassed laugh bubbles out of Dongju.

“What? A sweaty mess?”

“No.” Youngjo’s lip quirks, and Dongju knows before he opens his mouth again, that he is about to say something absolutely greasy. “In my arms.”

“Ugh,” Dongju groans, smacking at Youngjo’s shoulders even though his entire body tingles with an unfamiliar pleasure. “You’re too much.”

Youngjo laughs, loud and delighted, a laugh that Dongju has never heard at parties. There is a small part of him that thinks this is a laugh especially for him, one that only he can pull out, and he drags Youngjo into another kiss. Youngjo moves them through the conservatory, bumping into trees and plants and laughing against Dongju’s lips, and Dongju thinks he has never felt so full, so happy, than he does in this one, blissful moment. 

“So,” Youngjo says as he sets Dongju in a swinging wicker chair. “Do you actually have the experience you boasted of the other night, or was that all talk?”

There is no judgement in Youngjo’s tone, but Dongju still averts his gaze in embarrassment. 

“I may have been bluffing,” Dongju admits, and Youngjo hums. He gently cups Dongju’s chin, tilting his head up so that their eyes meet.

“It’s alright,” Youngjo says, eyes crinkling in the corners because of his smile. “I’ll take care of you.”

Dongju doesn’t have the time to be embarrassed about how his brother’s slacks get stuck around his thighs when Youngjo pulls them down. He doesn’t have time to be embarrassed when his cock bounces against his stomach, already hard and flushed and wet. He doesn’t have time for anything except the overwhelming sensation of Youngjo’s lips around him, tongue working along the slit in long, calculated movements. Every brush of Youngjo’s tongue feels like a shock of electricity to his system, and if Dongju could think perhaps he’d be embarrassed at the way his hips jump at every movement, desperate to seek more. 

“Oh,” he gasps, running his fingers through Youngjo’s hair over and over because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. Youngjo hums, blinks up at him through his lashes, and Dongju has to squeeze his eyes shut against the cresting wave of pleasure he can feel building. He has one leg tossed over Youngjo’s shoulder, and even though Youngjo’s mouth already feels so good, he finds himself trying to tug Youngjo closer, pressing against his back and rutting against his mouth in an attempt to sink even deeper. 

Youngjo gives him exactly what he wants without Dongju ever having to vocalize it. He bobs his head, sinking lower each time until Dongju finds himself completely enveloped in warm, wet heat. It’s so much. It’s so much and his body is on fire and when Youngjo looks up at him, lips stretched wide around his cock, Dongju can barely manage a garbled moan before he’s coming down Youngjo’s throat. He doesn’t see Youngjo’s expression, doesn’t know if he’s being judged for coming too quickly or not giving a sufficient warning, because his eyes squeeze shut against the wave after wave of pleasure he feels. He feels completely wrung out, body trembling with little spasms he has no control over. Youngjo pulls off, and the movement sends a sharp zing of pleasure all the way to Dongju’s toes. He doesn’t open his eyes until he feels Youngjo’s fingers trace along his jaw.

“Good?” Youngjo asks. His voice is hoarse, and he’s staring at Dongju with such open adoration that Dongju’s heart flips in his chest. He leans forward, cupping Youngjo’s cheeks in both hands, and kisses him. He is aware, in the back of his mind, that the sour taste on Youngjo’s tongue is his own taste, but he doesn’t have the energy to dwell on how that makes him feel. All he knows is that he feels sated. He feels adored. He feels like the constant buzz under his skin has finally muted so that he can take in the world more clearly, can take in Youngjo more clearly.

“I want to do you,” Dongju murmurs against Youngjo’s lips, and he can feel it when Youngjo smiles. 

“Do you now? Were you paying enough attention?”

“I’m a fast learner.” Dongju gently pushes Youngjo back as he slides out of the chair and onto his knees. Youngjo leans back, sprawled with an ease of someone who is used to being regarded, though his expression is soft and vulnerable. He toys with the button of his slacks, and spit wells in Dongju’s mouth when he finally unfastens it.

“Come over then, Little Fawn,” Youngjo says with a coy smile, and Dongju is only too happy to oblige.

***

“They make a cute couple,” Dongju says, pressing ever so slightly against Youngjo’s side. They are at a party celebrating Lee Keonhee’s birthday, and even though Dongju is sure Keonhee is meant to be romancing the many single women for a chance at a suitable match, he seems far more interested in talking to Hwanwoong. He’s not watching Keonhee and Hwanwoong, though, he’s watching his brother and one Lee Seoho.

Dongmyeong admitted that he was seeing someone a couple of months ago, but he hadn’t spilled the name. Dongju’s been able to piece it together though; there is no doubt from the way that Dongmyeong and Seoho look at each other that they are infatuated. Dongju wishes his brother would talk to him about it, wishes that Dongmyeong didn’t have to carry the burden of a secret relationship all on his own, but he also understands the delicate uncertainty of a relationship that is just blooming. His brother will come to him when he’s ready, and in the meantime Dongju enjoys the way Dongmyeong’s face lights up when he talks to Seoho, the way Seoho occasionally brushes his hand along Dongmyeong’s like a promise of something more intimate later.

“They do,” Youngjo agrees. He runs a hand down Dongju’s back and then tugs on the bottom of his jacket, disguising the touch as concern for Dongju’s appearance. They’ve gotten good at this, at finding ways to hide little touches when they’re in public. The music changes to something lively and Youngjo deposits his drink on the next tray that comes around. 

“Care to dance?” He asks with a ridiculous bow, holding his hand out. Dongju rolls his eyes, but he takes Youngjo’s hand and allows himself to be pulled to the middle of the floor. Like this, hidden in plain sight, their fingers are able to tangle together and they’re able to press closer, nosing at cheeks and necks under the guise of dancing.

“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” Youngjo whispers against his ear during a swell of music. Dongju doesn’t flush—he’s gotten better about not getting so flustered around Youngjo—but the deep heat of pride still blooms in his chest.

“You have,” Dongju says, “but you may tell me again.”

Youngjo laughs, head tilting back and hand tightening around his waist. His eyes crinkle in the corners and he looks at Dongju with an open adoration that Dongju knows is reserved just for him.

“You’re something else, Son Dongju.”

“So I’ve been told.”

They move together across the floor, everyone else inconsequential. Nothing matters except Youngjo’s palm against his and their chests pressed together, sharing a heartbeat. Dongju wishes he was better with words, wishes he could say _I love you_ as easily as Youngjo does, but he knows when Youngjo meets his gaze and his eyes soften ever so slightly, that Youngjo already knows.

Right now, in this moment, it is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who participated in the twt polls for this fic. If you, too, want to see my musings, feel free to follow me on twitter.


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